


Deadlands

by Espereth



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Community: skyrimkinkmeme, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 10:04:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Espereth/pseuds/Espereth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holed up through stormy weather in a dungeon on Solstheim, Caerlan Penmarch - a Breton nightblade, and avid admirer of Mehrunes Dagon - summons a Dremora merchant to pass the time. </p><p>Trigger warning for offscreen rape references.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deadlands

**Author's Note:**

> For the Skyrim Kinkmeme: http://skyrimkinkmeme.livejournal.com/3389.html?thread=5956157#t5956157

A storm raged outside the ruins of White Ridge Barrow, as Caerlan Penmarch found when he edged open the ruins’ heavy door. Even a small crack was enough to let in the driving wind, lashing the walls of the entrance hall with freezing gray ash-sleet.

There was no sense trying to travel now, Caerlan thought. He would simply have to wait it out. Even Odahviing couldn’t come for him through this.

He retreated deeper into the barrow, seeking a more comfortable place to make camp. There was a chamber not far in, where fresh air somehow found its way inside through nooks and crannies in the underground cave system. There the reavers had laid out their bedrolls and made a makeshift fireplace.

Caerlan lit the fire and sat down, making himself as comfortable as possible. The ash storm could last a day or a week. The weather patterns of Solstheim were chaotic, harsh, utterly unpredictable. 

The hours wore on. Caerlan checked the entrance a few times, in the hope that the storm had blown itself out, but it raged on – all gray sleet and frozen ash.

To pass the time, Caerlan wondered if he could summon the Dremora merchant – a hard-won power he had gained on his recent jaunts in Apocrypha. He felt a thrill of excitement at the idea of seeing the dark-skinned Dremora again, with his wry, contemptuous voice and glittering black eyes. Simply to be in the presence of a Daedra, trading with him as though they were equals, was more thrilling than anything else Caerlan could imagine.

Was it time? Caerlan and the merchant had only met once before, when Caerlan had summoned him perhaps two days ago. Would the Dremora be angered to be brought to Tamriel again so soon? Caerlan’s latest haul was not heavy, but there was a lot of it. Jewels, stones and gems; a few decent blades; a set of Stalhrim armor. All ready to be converted into gold. Caerlan had intended to sell it off in Raven Rock, but now it seemed he could be stuck here for Gods knew how long.

Yes, it was time. 

With his boot, Caerlan swept the stone floor clear of ash and dust, and laid down a clean, rolled-up hide. He spread his loot upon it, neatly, imagining the Dremora merchant examining his wares with those keen black eyes. When he was ready, he breathed deeply and raised a hand. 

“From the mortal plane, I call upon you,” Caerlan said quietly, his mind’s eye recreating the image of the Dremora merchant with his haughty, dry-witted gaze. “I invite you to come from Oblivion, to meet with me here, in Tamriel, in honest trade.”

The merchant materialised – tall and straight and slender, arms folded across his chest. His curved horns shone in the firelight, and the deep gray-brown skin of his face was patterned with red. Was it war-paint? A tattoo? Caerlan had never been able to work it out. He felt his heart pound and his throat tighten as the Dremora looked him over.

“So soon?” The Dremora merchant smiled. “Well, well,” he said, “If it isn’t Caerlan Penmarch.” He bowed deeply. “I graciously accept your invitation. Greetings from the Deadlands, my friend. Prince Mehrunes Dagon sends his regards.”

“Really?” Caerlan’s heart thumped with excitement. Mehrunes Dagon remembered his name? He swallowed, running his fingers across the black pommel stone of the Razor where it sat sheathed at his hip. Mehrunes’ Razor was Caerlan’s right-hand dagger, beautiful and deadly, light and fast. It suited Caerlan perfectly. The Daedric Prince himself had given it to him as a prize, after Caerlan had slain Silus Vesuius at the Shrine to Mehrunes Dagon in Skyrim. There was not another weapon like it in all of Tamriel. It had been hard to choose an offhand weapon worthy of being paired with the Razor. In the end, Caerlan had given up, and chosen a simple, unenchanted blade of honed ebony.

The Dremora merchant broke into full-bodied laughter. “Of course not, mortal. I was merely jesting with you.” He gave Caerlan a pitying look as the Breton nightblade’s face fell. “But believe me, you’re better off without my master’s attentions. You keep that blade and consider yourself fortunate. Enough foolishness, now. What do you have for me?”

“I – well, the usual,” Caerlan said, flushing with embarrassment. He cleared his throat and composed himself. “I’ve laid it out for you.” He indicated his wares, arranged on the hide on the stone floor, suddenly feeling stupid for trying so hard to impress the merchant. It was a poor selection, really, not worthy of this seasoned trader, this strider between realms, this being who treated daily with the Prince of Destruction himself. “Jewels, and so on. Some armor. A decent blade or two.” The Dremora tapped his foot. 

“I see. And you thought these trinkets would appeal to me?”

“Well – I’m sure you’ll find a buyer…” Caerlan trailed off, stammering under the merchant’s cold amusement. 

“I have other wares, if you have time to look,” Caerlan said. Usually the Dremora merchant would only stay long enough to buy and sell a few items, leaving straight after without ceremony. “I have captured the souls of men and mer, and harvested their hearts and flesh.” He remembered his latest forays into the more creative aspects of alchemy. “And I have poisons with effects you’ll not find anywhere else.” 

“I suppose I could stay a little longer,” the Dremora said. He was interested, Caerlan knew he was; though he wouldn’t show it.

Caerlan pulled out a small satchel from his pack and placed the contents on the hide. “A selection of poisons for you, Mas-“ He cut himself off, flushing with shame. Why did he feel the urge to call the Dremora “Master”? It made no sense at all. He shook himself. The merchant’s eyes mocked him, thrilling him to the pit of his stomach, making him hard. 

“A selection of powerful poisons, fellow trader,” he said. “Each has a different effect.”

“Describe them,” the merchant commanded. His voice stirred something deep within Caerlan. The merchant was _his_. Caerlan’s. It was Caerlan who summoned him, Caerlan who chose when and where he could appear in Tamriel. Surely, if anyone should be giving commands, it was Caerlan. But something about the haughty rasp of that voice made Caerlan shiver, hairs raising on his arms, the back of his neck, chills running up and down his spine. It felt right to obey him. To submit to him.

Breathing hard from a sudden wave of arousal, Caerlan presented the merchant with a small black bottle.

“This concoction drains an enemy’s will,” he began. “In combat, it saps the spirit. Two drops of this is enough to make the hardiest fighter give up and stand before you, caring not whether they live or die. For a short time, at least. I’ve even seen a bandit – Redguard girl, tough as you please – fall on her own blade after a good dose of this. Just didn’t want to go on living.” 

The merchant raised his brows. “Perhaps you’re not as dull as you look, mortal,” he said. “Go on.”

“This one simply causes suffering,” Caerlan said, holding up a blue phial. “No physical damage – none that I’ve detected, at any rate – but the pain is excruciating. I have seen battle-hardened warriors collapse on the ground, writhing, unable to fight until its effects wore off.”

“How fascinating,” the Dremora said slowly, looking at Caerlan with piqued interest. Caerlan burned with excitement under the scrutiny of those black eyes. 

“This allows you to steal a soul,” Caerlan said, “provided you have a gem to hold it. Of course, you’ve seen this kind of thing before, but mine is a particularly potent brew. Long-lasting,” he said.

“Long-lasting,” the Dremora repeated, smiling. His teeth showed, neat and white, in perfect sharp rows.

“Ahem. Yes. Long-lasting,” Caerlan said. _Divines and all the Daedra_ , he thought, images rushing into his head. How would it feel to kiss a Dremora, to have those sharp teeth nip at his throat? What exactly would “long-lasting” mean, to a Dremora? Hours? Days? He banished the images as best he could, and rushed into a description of the next potion, stammering.

“This will cause your opponents’ reserves of magicka to drain more quickly. This will Silence spells completely, forcing your enemy to face you with a blade, or fists, or whatever is available. And this – this is a special mix.” 

Caerlan held up a little cloth-wrapped sack of powder. “A tiny pinch of this allows the poisoner to command the victim. Your subject is completely in your thrall. Although temporarily unable to speak, he or she will perform any physical act you order, more willingly than the best of slaves.”

The Dremora gave a knowing chuckle. “And what use would you have for a substance like this, mortal?”

Caerlan cleared his throat. He wasn’t about to admit to the more… _recreational_ purposes he’d found for that particular powder. Not that he was ashamed of his actions; anyone who accepted a drink from a complete stranger had only themselves to blame for what happened next, in his opinion. But it was not something he had ever thought to discuss openly.

“I have many uses for many different things,” he said instead. “I often take contracts for the Thalmor, as a Questioner. Even First Emissary Elenwen says she admires my work. My _artistry_.” He was becoming boastful, he realised, as amusement grew in the Dremora merchant’s dispassionate eyes. But Caerlan felt sure a Dremora could appreciate these little innovations in the art of cruelty in a way that no mortal could. Not even Elenwen.

“I’ve found that the Powder of Command works exceptionally well during interrogations, when alternated with the Poison of Suffering. Of course, if you need your victim able to talk, it’s best to take care with the dosage.”

The Dremora merchant laughed again. “You’re working for the Thalmor? How… quaint.”

Caerlan looked at him. “A means to an end. I’ve set my sights higher, you know,” he blurted. “My skills would be invaluable in the service of a Daedric Prince.”

“Would they, now?”

“I believe so. Please, Mast-“ There he went again. Caerlan cursed himself, his humiliation growing deeper by the moment. 

“If you must call me something, I go by ‘Marrmonet’ to some,” the Dremora said. Caerlan was not sure whether the Dremora was intrigued, impressed, or merely amused at his audacity. But any which way, at least the merchant was still here in Tamriel. It was a longer conversation than any mortal could expect to have with such a being. “Although I must say,” said Marrmonet, reaching to brush a hand through Caerlan’s light brown hair, “‘ _Master’ does have a nice ring to it._ ” With the last sentence, the Dremora’s voice dropped to a whisper, and he seized a handful of Caerlan’s hair in his fist. A shudder ran through Caerlan’s body as the merchant touched him.

 _Marrmonet_. Barely breathing, Caerlan tasted the strange word, wondering at its meaning, rolling it over in his head, hearing it again in the Dremora’s soft, contemptuous rasp. He longed to hear himself say it. _Marrmonet_. _Marrmonet._

“You’re quite the alchemist, aren’t you, Caerlan Penmarch?” Said Marrmonet, releasing his handful of Caerlan’s hair. 

“I’m the best I know of,” Caerlan said simply. That wasn’t boasting; it was simple fact.

“And you think Mehrunes Dagon, Prince of Destruction, Change and Ambition, could use you,” Marrmonet said.

“I believe I would be invaluable to Him,” Caerlan said. He had a sudden idea. “Marrmonet…” The name felt like honey on his tongue. “Marrmonet. Please take these goods. Anything you want. In return, I ask only that you speak for me to your master, and tell Him that I would serve Him willingly in the Deadlands.” 

“Well now,” said Marrmonet. “This _is_ different.” He shifted his feet, rubbed his chin with a finger. “Do you think that… this…” - he indicated the goods spread on the hide – “is sufficient compensation for what you ask of me? I bathe in my master’s approval, these days. And you ask me to risk His approval in bothering Him with the desires of a mortal.”

“I do,” said Caerlan. “That is what I ask.” 

“Then your goods are not enough, mortal,” said Marrmonet, softly. He took Caerlan by his shoulders and backed him against the wall of the chamber. 

“What do you require?” Caerlan whispered. 

“On your knees,” commanded Marrmonet. 

“Of course, Master,” said Caerlan, sinking to his knees. His heart raced with eagerness.

“That powder you showed me,” said Marrmonet, again taking Caerlan by his hair. “I could use it on you. Could I not?”

“If you wish it, Master,” Caerlan murmured. “But it’s not necessary.” He rested his head against the Dremora’s lean-muscled thigh. “What would you have me do?” 

Marrmonet opened his robes, pushing aside the simple cloth to reveal his cock. Caerlan didn't know what he had been expecting, but it was normal enough in appearance. Not too big, not too small. A heavy soft sac underneath, a light growth of black hair surrounding it. Marrmonet pushed the hard length against Caerlan's cheek, and it felt warm against his skin. 

In his travels the length and breadth of Tamriel, Caerlan had seen all sorts. Nordic and Redguard men often thought themselves larger than average, but Caerlan had never found this to be the case. 

Argonian cocks were retractable, pale and dry, rather delicate when compared with their owners' thick scaled skin. He had seen his share of mer, as well - from thick gray-green Orsimer cock to long, pale yellowish Altmer, to golden-brown Bosmer and dark-skinned Dunmer. 

He had been with Khajiit, too, remembered the sweet, sharp agony of a barbed Khajiiti member at full erection inside him. They liked to bite the back of your neck when they came. 

And, of course, Bretons like himself, and Imperials: all individually different, but much the same in essence. He'd seen them all. But somehow, Marrmonet was different. He was Daedric, not mortal. To Caerlan, his cock was like the rest of him - otherworldly, far above the realm of men and mer and beast. He felt honored even to touch the Dremora merchant's warm dark skin. To have him in his mouth would be purest ecstasy.

Caerlan closed his eyes and rubbed his cheek against Marrmonet's cock. The hard length contrasted with soft skin. He cupped the shaft against his cheek with one hand, then kissed along it, feeling as eager as a young Companion on his first night of initiation.

The head of Marrmonet's cock was dark and shining, smooth as ebony. Eyes shut, Caerlan swirled his tongue around the tip to wet it, then took it in his mouth, letting his lips slide along the shaft and reaching to stroke his tongue along the underside.

Marrmonet groaned at that, his fist tightening in Caerlan's hair. "Mortal," he rasped.

"Mmhm," Caerlan said, his eyes till shut, taking in as much of the merchant's long shaft as he could. His scalp burned where Marrmonet was pulling his hair, the pain seeming to anchor him, reminding him of the fact that he was on his knees before a being he had called _Master_. It felt good. It was only right for Marrmonet, a Daedra, to dominate him, a mere mortal. 

He sucked, tightening his mouth around the smooth shaft of Marrmonet's cock. He had been hesitant to use his hands, as though they were not worthy of touching Daedric skin, but now Marrmonet began to thrust into his mouth, gasping in pleasure like anyone else Caerlan had been with, and he reached to cup a hand under the Dremora's warm, heavy sac. The skin there was like soft wrinkled silk, the hair coarse and wiry. Caerlan loved every bit of it. He loved the feel of the thick cock slipping in and out of his mouth, the weight of the merchant's balls on his fingertips as he gently felt them, and the pain of his hair clutched in rough hands. 

Caerlan especially loved the sound of Marrmonet, taking his pleasure in his mouth. The merchant's grunts and gasps came more and more quickly, their speed increasing with his thrusts into Caerlan's mouth. Now encouraged by his master's pleasure, Caerlan began to moan with him, enjoying the feel of the hard cock pushing deeper and deeper into his mouth, rougher by the moment. 

He was good at this, Caerlan knew he was. He knew how to keep his teeth away, to use his tongue, to make sure that the other man's cock was slick and wet, sliding easily in and out of his mouth, but applying the pressure of suction, harder and harder, slowly but surely. 

Soon enough Marrmonet's slim body began to shake. Caerlan braced both hands on the Dremora's hips, keeping his mouth steady while the merchant lost control, holding so tightly to Caerlan's hair that tears came to his eyes. He embraced the pain, savouring it, feeling it spread all over his scalp like a bright red haze. It seemed as though they spent minutes like that, Marrmonet holding him, fucking his mouth, Caerlan's hands on his hips. Then the merchant spasmed, cried out, and a new taste filled Caerlan's mouth. 

He swallowed, moaning. _This is what liquid magicka would taste like,_ he thought to himself. The purest essence of a being. It was hot and salty, burning all the way down. Marrmonet kept coming, long spurts filling his mouth. There was too much to swallow, and it spilled out of Caerlan's mouth. He didn't care. He swallowed what he could, let the rest slide down over his chin. 

Marrmonet grew still, leaning on the wall behind Caerlan, a hand still twisted in the Breton's hair. He pulled out, tucked himself away inside his robes, and, still shaking with pleasure, began to recover. 

"Master," Caerlan said, wiping his mouth. "Please, take me with you. Back to the Deadlands. I'll serve you any way you wish," he said. He bowed his head submissively. "If you'll have me."

"Mmm," Marrmonet said, getting his breath back. "I'm sure you would." He stroked Caerlan's head as though apologising for his roughness before, smoothing his dishevelled hair. "First, pick up these things for me," he commanded, looking at the potions and gems arrayed on the hide on the ground.

"At once, Master," said Caerlan, and obeyed. He packed the wares neatly, bundling them all in the hide. 

"Did I please you?" Caerlan asked, when the goods were in order, giving them to Marrmonet in a neatly-bound package.

"You pleased me, mortal," Marrmonet said, with a slight smile. He gave Caerlan a slow, hard kiss, tongue pushing deep into his mouth. Caerlan yielded to it immediately. "You taste good," Marrmonet whispered, discovering the aftertaste of his own delicious seed. 

Then the merchant let him go, pulling back before Caerlan was satisfied. "Well, mortal," said Marrmonet, patting Caerlan's flushed cheek. "I have business to take care of."

"Do- do we have a deal?" Caerlan asked, smoothing back his hair. "I would never presume, but I thought - please, won't you speak for me to Mehrunes Dagon?"

"I will consider it," Marrmonet said, black eyes narrowing in amusement. "I will consider it very, very carefully, mortal. Perhaps I will think on it while I use your poisons to torture one your your countrymen. Would you like that?"

"You'll find the mixtures effective," Caerlan said. "I promise you. Think of me, Marrmonet."

"Oh, I will," said Marrmonet, grinning. "Farewell, mortal. You've been most entertaining." And with that, he was gone.


End file.
